Museum

[Verse 1] Gallery One: “The Almost Kiss.” A frame of lips, a centimeter’s miss. The plaque reads, “Here Potential Died.” Do we mourn the love we never tried? [Chorus] The curator smiles, dusts the shelves— “We only keep what we couldn’t tell ourselves. The exits glow, the entrances rust… This museum’s built on might-have-been dust.” [Verse 2] Room Seventeen: “The Words Unsaid.” Jars of phrases trapped in lead. One labeled “You,” one labeled “Stay,” Do they hum at night? Do they fade away? [Chorus] The curator sighs, adjusts her gloves— “The jars are empty, but the echoes flood. We charge admission in tears and time… The gift shop sells ‘It’s Not Too Late’ in mime.” [Bridge] [Strings swell, clock ticks accelerate] The final hall: “The Door Left Cracked.” A draft sweeps through, and the walls contract. Is that your shadow? Or just a stain? [Music cuts abruptly] [Outro] The lights go out. The tours disband. The museum lives in the palm of your hand.